


Bartered

by humble_mumbles



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Alternate Universe, Downton Abbey is to blame for this, F/M, The No Name Fairy Tale Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humble_mumbles/pseuds/humble_mumbles
Summary: “What are you keeping from me, Mr. Morgan?” she demanded, growing tired of his game.“Me?” He said innocently, shaking his head. “Absolutely nothing.” His eyes gleamed. “That would be your father.”She frowned. She couldn’t help herself. What could her father be keeping from her?“Let me enlighten you, my lady,” he began scornfully. “You aren’t standing in this room out of the kindness of your father’s heart to help someone of my class. You’re not here to help me or help my ward.” He paused, studying her intently. She stared back at him impassively. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. “You’re here because of your father’s ill begotten ventures and impetuous nature,” Mr. Morgan continued with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders as her world came crashing down around her. “You’re here to pay off your family’s debt.”Her vision shrouded by the latest addition to her collection of hats, she stared out the wall of glass, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, but despair.Father, what have you done?“And you shall remain here until you do.”





	Bartered

 

_1823_

They say nothing is ever as it seems.

From the outside, it bears the appearance of an ordinary house sitting on Park Lane.

But nothing is ever as it seems.

It is no ordinary house. No ordinary mansion.

Glittering marble bricks coalesce to form the walls of Roseate House. It sparkles in the morning sun and shimmers bathed in the moonlight, each facet of the edifice glints like the jewel of Mayfair that it is. Although set apart from companion homes with its looming top finial, broad polished stairs and arched windows gazing out over Hyde Park, it holds court on Park Lane. The estate brings a harmony to its nook of the city, silently absorbing the everyday hustle and bustle of the posh area.

Much to the disappointment of the _ton_ , it is shrouded from their prying eyes by soaring arborvitae trees. They stand tall and straight, sentinels protecting the perimeter of their beloved home. The guardian greenery hide the estate’s inner beauty, an intricate rose garden. To be sure, it would be quite the attraction. Its roses grow in abundance in the spring, vibrant and lush, overflowing with a sultry aroma that seeps past the densely packed arborvitaes, gracing passing pedestrians with a whiff of Roseate’s enticing wonders.

Such an extraordinary mansion would have no ordinary master.

As the saying goes, nothing is ever as it seems.

The master of the mansion stands in his study behind a grand mahogany desk, polished and gleaming. The weak morning sunlight filters in through a floor length window, scarcely penetrating the dimly lit study. The room is as immaculately kept as the rest of Roseate House. A variety of baubles adorn the room, hinting at the depths of the man who rules the sprawling estate.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he studies the listless clouds painting the London sky with a dreary disposition. He appears calm and at ease, no tension riddling the wide berth of his shoulders. As though lost in his thoughts.

However, he is instinctively aware of his surroundings. He is aware of the soft crackle of the fire that changes along with the changing seasons. It will be roaring in a fortnight. He is aware of the light footfalls of his household outside the double doors of his study as they prepare for their day. Most of all, he is distinctly aware of his gentleman caller this morning.

It is no ordinary occurrence that a member of the _ton_ is privy to his inner domain. In fact, seldom—save for a few trusted souls—are guests welcome, let alone invited to step past the tall, wrought iron gates that barricade the mysterious Roseate. It is no happenstance either that Jeffrey Webber, the twelfth Earl of Radford, sought an audience with someone so below his station.

Lord Radford bore the appearance of the very gentleman he was born and bred to be, dressed in an appropriate morning coat and pressed black trousers. The pigeon blue hue of his waistcoat is a splash of color against the leather chair he occupies. His black top hat and walking stick were accepted by the fastidious butler upon his arrival. It is a sharp contrast to the man on his feet. Although, his clothes are of equal quality, if not better, he wears a simple snowy white shirt and close-fitted black trousers to receive his unannounced guest. His waistcoat of a shocking black and white cravat lay strewn carelessly across a love seat. Thoroughly scandalous by society standards.

It is an unerring portrayal of their opposing classes.

A peer and a merchant.

Opposite ends of the spectrum of society.

However, nothing is ever as it seems and the two vastly different men of two vastly different worlds equally depend on the other as a means to an end.

Desperation permeates the study. It hangs heavy and ominous over the pair. It originates from an unlikely source. An improbable source to an outsider peering into the room. It adds an underlying tension threatening to brim over at any given moment.   

“Mr. Morgan,” Lord Radford begins unsteadily. He pauses to clear his throat softly. He shifts in his seat, the chair creaks with his uncertainty. “I find myself in a predicament.”

The merchant listens to the struggle in Radford’s voice. A battle with his pride. To beg is beneath a gentleman, but contrary to their claims, the members of the gentry are human and susceptible to humiliation just as every other living, breathing Godly creation.

The silence falls between them, growing strained with every passing tick of the clock.

He remains with his back to his guest. Tall, imposing, and unmoved.

“I’m unable to keep with our agreement this month,” Lord Radford elaborates. He hesitates for a moment before releasing a resigned sigh. “Unfortunately, my affairs are in straits and I require some time to reimburse you for your generosity.”

The merchant’s lip curves sardonically.

“My solicitors advise that if you are agreeable to any other form of compensation,” Radford gained confidence with every word he uttered to maintain his dignity, “my family has numerous valuable possessions. You'll have your pickings of the best money can buy.”

“Very well.”

The despair that clung to the air is instantly replaced by unabashed relief.

“Of course!” Lord Radford springs to life, displaying unrestrained relief to discover the merchant agreeable to his plight. “Whatever pleases you is yours.”

It’s only natural to interpret things as they appear.  

For instance, Roseate House is a glorious mansion. Stunning to the eyes privileged to grace its presence. Flawless from every chiseled detail to the artistry of the gardeners grooming the shrubbery to works of art. Any naive individual would believe it to be as it seems. A lovely home full of adventure and delight. However, in all its splendor, it is simply an appearance.

Its ethereal beauty an illusion.

A misleading facade to conceal the darkness that lurks within.

One would assume that Roseate House is simply a home. A grand estate for a grand family just as Lord Radford assumes he witnessed a benevolent entrepreneur willing to negotiate his terms.

However, the error lies in accepting things as they seem.

The merchant finally faces his guest. His jaw is firm and strong. His expression neutral, but his electrifying cerulean eyes gleam menacingly in the dim lighting. Cold and untouchable are these eyes.

The darkness of Roseate House towers over a hopeful Lord Radford’s as he makes his claim. 

“Lady Elizabeth will do.”

The gentleman’s face collapses in horror. 

It is no astonishing feat for nothing is ever as it seems.

Roseate House is no ordinary mansion, home to none other than ‘the Beast’ of Mayfair.

And as hauntingly beautiful as ‘the Beast’ appears, he is not as he seems. 

After all, nothing is ever as it seems.


End file.
